


Sure as the Dust

by zythepsary



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3913519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zythepsary/pseuds/zythepsary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian talks to Iron Bull after Adamant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure as the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about because [serenity-fails](http://serenity-fails.tumblr.com) mentioned wanting more fic where Dorian took care of Iron Bull.
> 
> References to drunk sex, Sera/Cadash, Dorian/OMC, and Iron Bull/OFC. Nothing explicit, though.
> 
> Also, this is set in the same universe as [As the Sun Burns the Ground](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3704277), but can be read as a standalone.

Adamant was a tough fight.

Dorian could deal with shades and demons and wisps. He could kill his countrymen, if need be. Bandits, too, or those strange templars with the red growths. But a lyrium-spitting dragon was somewhat more than he could handle, and he was relieved when the fighting slowed and Cadash stood triumphant.

The journey back to Skyhold took longer than usual. They traveled with legions of soldiers, crawling slowly across the landscape like a towering giant. Dorian was still astounded by the size of the Inquisition's army. There were fresh faces at Skyhold every day, but he never realized exactly how many people had pledged themselves to the Inquisition until he saw all those soldiers in one place.

On the first night, Cadash yelled at no one in particular for a good hour about dwarves and the Fade and how she wasn't even supposed to _dream_. Dorian was fascinated by the concept of a dreaming dwarf, but he knew how frightened she was, and any questions he asked would only upset her further. He woke up early each day to bring her black tea and, one morning, managed to scrounge up some stale scones. Delight spread across her tired features, and that was worth all the time he had spent.

Iron Bull stayed quiet, replying to questions with one-word answers, so Dorian stopped asking. He kept to himself during the day and sat with Vivienne at night, a greataxe always slung over his back. She told Dorian that he was fine, even though he didn't ask, and had Bull running errands and assisting soldiers with dull tasks. Carrying messages and inventory requests across camp was a job for a young soldier, or even a child, but Bull didn't seem to mind.

Among the group who traveled into the Fade, Solas was the only one who didn't seem bothered. If anything, he seemed pleased and almost thrilled by the events at Adamant, with the exception of their new Grey Wardens allies. He didn't like them and couldn't be bothered to be polite about it, which frustrated Blackwall and annoyed Cadash. After a few days, Dorian asked him about his experience in the Fade, since Solas was likely the only one who could give him proper answers. Their conversation had barely started before Dorian remembered that every time they discussed magic, Solas treated him like a dimwitted apprentice who could barely manage a simple spell. He didn't bother trying again.

Sera spoke in shouts and curses, mostly directed at Solas and Cole, until there was one loud argument with Cadash. It was difficult to avoid overhearing, but Dorian tried, grimacing every time one of them raised her voice. The quarrel ended with Sera stomping away, shouting at Blackwall to make room in his tent. Cadash's mouth was a thin, tight line, and they didn't speak for the rest of the journey.

In the last stretch, Iron Bull stood next to him as they stopped to make camp. His eye flicked towards Sera and Blackwall, huddled together a short distance away, then back to Dorian. He nudged Dorian's shoulder with his arm.

"Don't worry. Boss'll be okay. Sera, too."

It was the first thing Bull had said to him since Adamant besides _No_ and _Yes_ and _I'm not hungry_. Dorian thought about commenting on it and decided not to, since he didn't see the point in drawing attention. He glanced over and saw Sera hide her face in Blackwall's chest, shivering and complaining about the wind. Blackwall patted her back and told her to grow a beard.

Dorian shrugged. "I'm not worried."

"Liar," Bull said, laughing.

*

Skyhold was quiet. Hardly any people wandered the grounds, preferring to stay in the barracks or the castle, mourning their fallen brothers and sisters. Dorian had never seen the chapel so busy.

He spent the first day back sleeping, thankful for the comfort of a bed instead of cold ground, and then began to work on all his neglected research. His time was split between the library and his quarters, with occasional trips to the kitchens and Josephine's office. Cadash visited a few times, then probably reconciled with Sera, because Dorian didn't talk to either of them for two days. He saw more of Solas and his mural than anyone else.

After a week, Harding came to see him in the library and invited him for a drink, which he gladly accepted. His back was stiff, sharp aches shooting over his neck, and he could think of nothing better than a cold drink and good conversation.

The tavern was busy. Groups of soldiers and scouts drank and talked, while the bard plucked away at her lute. Dorian glanced around, expecting to spot Sera or Iron Bull, but neither of them were here. Sera was probably asleep already; she'd been begging Vivienne for sleeping draughts since they returned. The Chargers were also missing, save for Dalish and Skinner, who sat in the corner with a tankard between them.

There were a few spots open at the bar, which Dorian preferred to the tables. Cabot was easier to buy a drink from than the barmaids, who would always serve a soldier or a scout over the sinful Tevinter mage, and it wasn't as cramped. He suggested it to Harding, who agreed and hopped onto a stool. She planted coin on the bar before he could and told him to be quiet when he protested.

Harding was a joy to speak with. She was a kind, sweet woman, always ready to spin a tale or listen to one. Dorian appreciated how she looked into people's eyes when they talked; it meant she listened well. She told a story about Josephine and blushed, her ears bright red, and he managed to tease her only twice.

An hour or so later, Dorian heard murmurs of conversation and heavy footsteps above, traveling from the tavern's rooms to the stairs. He could follow Iron Bull's path without looking.

When Dorian did glance up, he quickly spotted Iron Bull, walking stiffly through groups of soldiers with an arm tucked against his belly. Probably pushed himself too hard sparring with Krem or Cassandra, Dorian assumed. Generally, Bull didn't stop fighting until he couldn't move anymore.

Bull rested his palms on the railing and leaned over it, craning his neck. He called and waved to Dalish and Skinner, who shouted something unintelligible back and made mock horns with their fingers. They slapped the table and barked with laughter when he did the same, stretching his index fingers behind the massive horns. Bull's grin was wide, brightening his entire face.

He wasn't particularly handsome. Not classically. But Dorian did like watching him smile.

"Oh, good," said Harding, her eyes on Iron Bull. "He's up."

Dorian shifted in his seat, putting his back to the bar, and rested his tankard on his knee. "Did something happen?"

"Lady Cassandra and the Inquisitor were hitting him with sticks this morning. Really hard."

"Of course they were." Dorian drank another mouthful of ale. He couldn't say he was surprised. It sounded like something Bull and Cadash would do, though Cassandra's involvement was peculiar. Perhaps she wanted to work through stress that her straw men and training swords couldn't fix. "They must have had fun."

Harding snorted. "Well, they were laughing a lot."

Someone was watching him. Dorian could feel the weight of the gaze skimming over his skin. He glanced up.

Iron Bull pointed at Dorian with one hand, miming drinking with the other, and gestured back to himself.

"I'm not a barmaid," Dorian called, loud enough that a few people turned around. He slumped against the bar and emptied the rest of his drink down his throat. His sigh was loud and exaggerated, meant for Bull, but Cabot took it as a crude hint and snatched the empty tankard from his hand. He turned to refill it, muttering under his breath about Vint manners.

Iron Bull folded his arms on top of the railing and hunched over, resting his chin on his wrist. He mouthed _please_.

 _Pretty please_ , Dorian mouthed back.

 _Please, pretty_ , was Iron Bull's response, followed by another wide grin.

It was mortifying how quickly lust slipped along Dorian's spine. His hand had been only his company lately. The last time they fucked was before Adamant, since Dorian preferred a sturdy bed and there was rarely enough time or privacy outside of Skyhold. Bull hadn't seemed interested in anything after the battle, and—from what gossip Dorian had overheard—he hadn't left Krem's side or the tavern since their return.

Dorian slouched deeper. He wondered if Iron Bull knew, just by looking at him from across a room.

"Aw, bring him one," said Harding, nudging Dorian's arm with her elbow. "Look at him! He's pouting."

"If you insist," Dorian said, but he was already standing and dropping too many silvers on the bar for Cabot. He pushed the coin towards the dwarf, hoping that would count as an apology, and picked up the tankard. "Have I ever told you that you're my favorite bartender?"

"Flattery means nothing to me," said Cabot, as he pocketed the coin.

Someone at a table of scouts cried Harding's name. She looked apologetically between them and Dorian, so he thanked her for the drink and wished her well. Her freckled cheeks turned pink when she returned the gratitude.

Dorian climbed the stairs, stealing sips of ale as he walked. He considered drinking it all and showing Iron Bull an empty cup, but that was childish, and Bull would surely coax him into fetching another, anyway. A young woman darted in front of him, calling out to the soldiers behind her. Dorian flattened himself against a support beam and let them all pass before he followed.

Iron Bull still waited at the railing, drumming his fingers along the wood. Now that Dorian was close enough, he could see that Bull's belly was red and irritated, marked with dark lines that looked like bruises. There was no blood or open wounds, but it still looked painful. Dorian grimaced.

There was a group of soldiers near Iron Bull, clustered together around a table. They ignored Dorian, even when Bull said his name and beckoned him over. Dorian walked closer and leaned against the railing, crossing one ankle over the other. A splinter dug into his elbow.

Iron Bull plucked the tankard from Dorian's hand. He drank deeply and sighed, closing his eye for a moment.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

He dropped affectionate terms into conversation sometimes, often just because Dorian would scoff at him, though he usually did it in private. Dorian hoped the soldiers hadn't heard, and an old fear crawled up the back of his neck. It was one that should had been quelled years ago, but it wriggled its way back into his thoughts sometimes. If the soldiers overheard or noticed how Dorian was frozen in place, they didn't comment on it, and Dorian was grateful. Somehow, those little words were far more intimate than anything Bull whispered against Dorian's bare skin.

"Well, I do what I can for the Inquisition's wounded," said Dorian, glancing at the bruises.

Iron Bull touched his belly and lifted one shoulder, shrugging. He drank, tipping the tankard back until it was empty.

"I'm not going back downstairs."

"That's all I needed," Iron Bull said, which was a damned lie. Dorian had never seen him drink one cup and call it a night. "You been here long?"

Dorian tended to lose track of time when he was working or drinking, but he knew he hadn't been here too long. "An hour. Maybe more. Harding invited me for a drink."

"Oh." Iron Bull held the empty tankard against his chest and glanced at the crowd below. He tipped his head towards Harding, slight enough that only Dorian would notice. "I didn't think that was your style. Stringing someone along like that."

"What?" Dorian said, confused, before he realized what Bull meant. "Oh, I see! No, no. She knows I have no interest." He turned away from the group of soldiers and leaned closer to hide his mouth behind Bull's shoulder, as though what he was about to say was a secret. "That I won't ever have an interest."

Iron Bull nodded and shifted his weight, bumping Dorian's shoulder with his arm. "Was she upset when you told her?"

Actually, there hadn't been a need to say anything. One night, back when they first arrived in Skyhold, Dorian had found himself drunk enough to make an overt pass at a handsome scout, and the man had stammered and murmured a quick prayer before leading Dorian to some dark room. They hadn't exchanged names, Dorian thought, or at least he didn't remember. He remembered stubble scratching against his cheek, the cold ground under his knees, and a big hand on his head, fingers curling against his scalp—and then Harding had walked in.

She had apologized profusely, turning pinker with every word, but whatever mood he and the scout had built over a few rounds at the tavern was gone. Dorian hadn't bothered to offer an excuse and went to bed unsatisfied and annoyed with men who lied about locking doors, and he hadn't seen the scout again.

"I know she's sweet on you," Iron Bull continued.

His voice was calm. Casual, as thought he was remarking on the weather. If they were alone, Dorian might tilt his head back, look up at Bull through his eyelashes, and ask if he was jealous. Bull would do the same, he knew. He loved teasing Dorian, especially in public.

Instead, Dorian said, "She finds me pleasing to look at," and Iron Bull hummed and nodded in agreement.

Behind them, the group of soldiers burst into hysterical laughter. From the fragments of conversation Dorian could pick up, it was something about a nug. Iron Bull glanced over his shoulder and winced, touching his belly.

Dorian clucked his tongue. "This is why we don't hit each other with sticks."

"It's a," Iron Bull began and stopped, sighing. "Never mind."

"What?"

"It's a training exercise," said Iron Bull flatly. It sounded like he had explained this more than once today. "A Qunari one."

"Obviously."

"It helps."

"It sounds silly," Dorian said, and told Iron Bull to sit. He wasn't a healer, not even an amateur one, but he knew people got better with rest. When Bull didn't move, Dorian added, "I'll buy you another ale."

"Shit," said Iron Bull, laughing. "What'd I do to deserve that?"

"Behave, and I might tell you."

Still chuckling, Iron Bull glanced around the tavern. He lifted his chin, saying, "There," and started walking through the crowd, murmuring pardons as he did. People made a path for him and Dorian followed, trying not to get swallowed up by groups of drunk soldiers.

Bull lead him to an empty table in the corner—a small one, meant for four people—and presented it with a quick flourish. Dorian took the side that faced the crowd, since Bull would have to hunch his shoulders to fit comfortably against the wall, and watched Bull struggle to sit on the opposite side. It was a tight fit, even though he straddled the bench.

"It looks worse than it is," said Iron Bull, when he noticed Dorian's frown. He rested his left arm on the table, twisting his chest until he was comfortable. Angling himself so he could see across the entire room, Dorian assumed. Bull didn't like having a blind spot. "I'm good."

"Are you certain?"

"I'm good," Iron Bull said again. He bent his arm, curling his fingers into his palm. There was a day-old wound on his elbow, thick and black with dried blood.

Dorian glanced around at the nearby tables. A Chantry sister to his left, chatting with alchemists, and groups of scouts and soldiers next to her. There was another table full of soldiers behind Iron Bull, trying and failing to sing a filthy tavern song. The wall was to his right and at his back. With Iron Bull's bulk blocking his view, he thought he might be hidden from most of the crowd.

"Still buying me that drink?" Iron Bull asked. When Dorian nodded, he lifted his hand and called for someone named Tess.

A barmaid, likely. They loved Iron Bull. He was a gracious customer, always tipping well when he drank, so they were eager to fetch drinks and slip him and the Chargers hot meals from the kitchens when Cabot wasn't looking. He had probably fucked most of them by now, too. A few always blushed when they saw him.

The woman walking towards them looked a little familiar; Dorian must have seen her a few times. She was older than the other employees, a little soft around the belly, and she brandished a tray like a battering ram when people didn't move out of her way. Strong hands, Dorian noticed. Scarred, too. He wondered if she used to be a soldier. She carried herself like one.

"Hello, Bull," Tess said. She tucked the tray against her side and rested her hand on Iron Bull's shoulder, squeezing. Crinkles appeared around her eyes when she grinned. "What can I get you, love?"

Iron Bull shifted his weight and nodded at Dorian. "He's buying."

Tess looked at him expectantly, so Dorian told her to bring two of the cheapest ales. Cabot only sold the one at the moment, since they had already drained the casks Orzammar sent as a gift. The ale was Ferelden, dark and bitter, and it stuck to Dorian's ribs like a good meal.

"Two ales, then," said Tess, nodding. She plucked the empty tankard from Bull's hand and returned to the crowd.

Iron Bull moved again, his knee bumping into Dorian's leg. It could have been an accident. The furniture here wasn't built for giants, and Bull was always shifting, stretching, trying to get comfortable. But he fixed his eye on Dorian, watching. A question, then. Dorian answered, pressing their legs together from ankle to knee, and nudged back.

This was as much as Dorian would allow when they had an audience. He didn't need strangers commenting about who he fucked. It was bad enough that they thought of him as a terrifying, evil magister, ready to worm his way into the Inquisition and destroy it from within. He liked his privacy. Coveted it. It was a luxury, compared to years of everyone knowing the intimate details of his personal affairs.

How odd, Dorian realized. He used to dream about doing something as simple as kissing a man in public without someone tutting and lamenting what he'd done to his family. If he wanted, he had that opportunity now. Iron Bull was an affectionate man, happy to accept embraces and kisses from friends and strangers. He would be pleased if Dorian leaned across the table and kissed him. More than anything, he would probably be proud.

Dorian stayed still, with Iron Bull's leg warm against his.

Tess returned shortly after, balancing a tray above her head. Dorian had coin ready, but she waved her hand, saying, "You overpaid for the last one." She placed the tankards on the table, plucked the alchemists's empty glasses up and onto her tray, and swooped down to kiss Iron Bull's cheek before she disappeared behind a group of soldiers.

All of it seemed to happen in seconds. Dorian curled his fingers around his tankard.

"That was efficient."

"She's been working in taverns for years," Iron Bull said. He drank and leaned back, sighing. A grimace tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced down.

"Ice," said Dorian suddenly. When Iron Bull's brows knitted together, he added, "I could make some ice." He couldn't mend a wound, but he knew how to make ice and heat for bruises. "Would that help?"

"Yeah, if you didn't mind," Iron Bull answered. He glanced around the tavern, his eye flicking towards the front door. "D'you need your staff? I bet I could get someone to—"

"It's a simple spell," Dorian interrupted, scoffing, and pushed his tankard off to the side. He raised one hand, palm up, and held the other above it, a few inches apart. A thick sheet of ice began to appear on the lower hand, shaped by the other. Snowflakes slipped off his fingers, melting before they reached the table. Iron Bull watched the ice grow. "I've done this since I was a child."

When Dorian was finished, he gestured for Iron Bull to show his hand. Bull did, palm up, and Dorian placed the ice there. Fingers brushed against the inside of his wrist.

"Thanks," Iron Bull said, drawing his hand back. Dorian expected another endearment, but it didn't come. "This'll—oh, _shit_ , that's cold."

"It's ice," Dorian reminded him. He watched Iron Bull hold his breath before he applied the ice to his belly again. "I can make you hot ice, if you like. Boiling ice. You could certainly use a bath."

Iron Bull picked up his tankard. "You just want to see me try and fit in one of those tiny tubs."

Instead, they talked. They did that often now, ever since the night Dorian found enough courage in an empty bottle and stumbled into Iron Bull's room. When he wasn't teasing Dorian about his mage skirts or telling him to polish his staff, Bull was pleasant to speak with. Dorian always forgot that Bull was an intelligent man, but he didn't object to the reminder. He liked being surprised by clever things.

Topics ranged from Cadash to Sera's latest prank to the latest crop of nobles littering the halls to the training exercises Cullen ran every morning at dawn, but it always ended up coming back to Tevinter. Bull was one of the few people in Skyhold who knew much of anything about his homeland beyond the standard stories, and probably the only one who would talk to Dorian at length. Krem was polite but indifferent, and Dorian hadn't had much luck with anyone else. More often than not, Dorian pined horribly for a home that wasn't there for him anymore, and he was grateful that Bull allowed him to ramble about Minrathous, or how the sky was different here, or all the food he missed.

Eventually, the conversation died down. Below, people were dancing and laughing, loud enough that Dorian felt it in his chest. The bard's voice rose above the noise, sweet and warm. He couldn't remember the last time he danced. A party, surely. He must have danced with a woman or two, for appearance's sake—his father's, of course; this was back when he made an effort—and disappeared into an empty room with someone tall and handsome.

That was the unspoken agreement, when his parents assumed he would grow out of his preferences. He was supposed to marry and do his duties, to raise his children to the Magisterium. He might have spent his nights ignoring his wife and fucking a body slave, like so many other men. Or he would have been broken and empty, yanked along by his father's bloody strings.

Dorian gripped the empty tankard and found himself wishing for something stronger. He cleared his throat, trying to settle his thoughts.

Iron Bull lifted the ice, looking at the bruised skin below. Compared to Sera, he seemed absurdly cheerful about their Fade trip, though he always appeared to be in good spirits. Dorian wondered how well he was handling it. He wasn't particularly fond of demons, and Dorian had seen him flinch a few times around magic. If he was upset or frightened, he didn't show it, but he might appreciate a chance to talk about it.

Although, Dorian realized, if Bull needed to talk to someone, surely he would have done that already. He had his Chargers and Cadash and groups of young soldiers that followed Bull and Krem like eager ducklings. All Dorian did was stumble around Thedas with him during the day and share his bed a few nights a week. They might have been friends without the sex, eventually, but Dorian couldn't know for sure.

But Dorian did want to offer his help, so he leaned forward. The table pressed sharply into his elbows.

"You didn't enjoy the Fade, I take it," said Dorian quietly.

Iron Bull's mouth twisted. He cleared his throat and tipped his head towards Dorian, one horn nearly scraping along the wall. "No." His voice was low, barely discernible above the crowds. "No, I didn't."

"Is that why Cassandra and Cadash were smacking you with sticks?"

"Stick," Iron Bull corrected.

"Stick," Dorian repeated. He uncurled his fingers from the tankard. "Right. Did you...enjoy that?"

"Not in the way you're implying," Iron Bull answered, managing to look delighted and vaguely offended at the same time. He peered into his empty tankard, sighing, and pushed it to the end of the table. "The pain—it's part of a training exercise, like I said. A little distraction."

Of course qunari trained by hitting each other with sticks. Dorian fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Did it make you feel better?"

"It gives me a single thing to focus on. That makes everything simpler."

"Ah." That didn't make much sense to Dorian. He concentrated better with more work, more things to pay attention to. If there was only one problem, he focused on it so intensely that he never accomplished anything. He shrugged. "If it works for you, I suppose."

"Yeah, it does."

"Good," said Dorian, nodding. "I know it wasn't a good fight." He remembered seeing them appear in the main courtyard, bloodstained and weary. Varric had been so relieved to see Hawke again that he hadn't noticed Stroud was missing. "Not a clean one, anyway."

Iron Bull pressed the ice back against the bruises. "I've had worse. You get used to it."

"That doesn't mean you _should_ ," said Dorian. He meant to joke, to tease, but he gave his words too much weight. They lingered thickly in the air, deafening over Bull's silence. The floor shook under his feet. People stomped and clapped along with the music, oblivious to their conversation.

Eventually, Iron Bull said, "Better me than someone else."

Dorian looked at all the scars branching across Iron Bull's skin and wondered how many came from Bull stepping in front of a mortal blow. More than once, Bull had protected Dorian from angry foes and their blades, and Dorian had seen him do the same for others. He shrugged off blows as if they meant nothing, even after his skin was dark and sticky with blood.

"Well," said Dorian, trying to fumble his way back to his original point, "if you want to—talk, or something—"

"I'm good," Iron Bull cut in. "I process this shit quickly."

Dorian remembered all those nights Bull sat silent and still with Vivienne, but he said nothing and leaned back, nodding.

"Thanks, though," Iron Bull added. He nudged Dorian's knee with his. "I appreciate it."

Finally, the song came to an end, and people applauded. The bard took a bow, her cheeks flushed.

"You're too nice to me tonight," said Iron Bull slowly. He studied Dorian, eye flicking from Dorian's features down to his hands, still resting beside the tankard.

Dorian bristled. "I'm always nice."

"I think you want something."

There were more than a few things Dorian wanted, especially after so long, but he had no interest in pursuing any of them if Bull wasn't interested. If Dorian knew anything, he knew how to wait. "Perhaps."

Iron Bull didn't reply, though his gaze was as heavy as his touch. He stared openly at Dorian's mouth, which was about as subtle as Bull ever was with him. He always waited for Dorian to ask first.

"If you still need a distraction," said Dorian, and let Iron Bull imagine the rest of the sentence.

Iron Bull's mouth split into a crooked grin. "You want a turn with the stick?"

"Not really." Something flickered across Bull's face, too quickly for Dorian to decipher. "Unless—"

Words disappeared from his tongue. He had no idea if Iron Bull was talking about that Qunari exercise, or if this was about sex. Pain wasn't a part of their dalliances. Dorian had been tied up and held down and marked, but Bull never hurt him intentionally. Sometimes, he had aches and the occasional discomfort, but that was to be expected, given the sheer size of the man. There was a reason Dorian used to get blind drunk before spending most of the night in Bull's bed.

Iron Bull would do it, if Dorian asked. He never had. Neither had Bull, for that matter. Dorian had no idea if he wanted to. They never discussed that, since Bull always steered the conversation back to Dorian's preferences.

And if he did want that, was it even something Dorian could _do_? Physically, it was unlikely. Dorian could throw a decent punch, but there was no getting around the fact that Bull was a thick block of muscle. He couldn't harm Bull, unless he used something sharp. Magic was always an option, but he didn't want to associate his lovely lightning with pain. The _sounds_ Bull made when he thrust into Dorian's hand, sparks twisting around his cock—

"Unless," Iron Bull repeated, gesturing for Dorian to continue.

"Unless," said Dorian again, hesitating. He didn't like feeling this unsure, and he wished this conversation was happening behind a closed door. "Do you want me to?"

Iron Bull studied him for a moment, unblinking. He leaned closer and murmured, "I'm not asking you to take a swing at me. Not like that."

Dorian sucked in a quick breath and held it. He should have known that Bull would understand. He had seen it happen before, when Bull watched someone and saw how they breathed, or the way they blinked, or what words their lips nearly formed. Having his thoughts betrayed by the tiniest of reactions was disconcerting, but at least it was direct, and Dorian did appreciate how Bull rarely skirted around whatever he intended to say.

"Well," said Dorian, to fill the silence. He pushed his knee against Iron Bull's. "Good to know."

They were quiet for a moment, Bull's knee tight against his.

"If you're still offering," said Iron Bull, dropping his voice lower. "I like seeing you in my bed."

Heat crept up Dorian's neck. When Bull's voice dipped low and rumbly like that, it stirred something under his skin. "That can be arranged. Now?"

"Now's good."

"I'll be there shortly."

Iron Bull said his name, sighing, and Dorian braced himself for the impatient tone. "You can follow me. No one'll notice or care. You're just another face in the crowd."

There was no exasperation in his tone. He sounded gentle, like he always did, which was equal parts infuriating and considerate. Dorian didn't deserve it.

"You don't blend in as well as I do," Dorian reminded him. Iron Bull shrugged and looked ready to say something else, so Dorian quickly added, "Give me the ice. I'll get rid of it."

Iron Bull lifted his hand up from under the table, the ice clutched in his palm. Dorian held the ice and Bull's hand between his, willing the conjured water to slip back into nothing. Soon, their hands were dry and warm, like nothing was ever there, and Dorian was struck with an odd urge to continue touching Bull's hand. The thought erupted, spilling over his skull until it was all he could think about.

He had never held a man's hand before. How was that even possible?

Dorian couldn't move. They were sitting in a busy tavern, noise and music thumping in Dorian's ears, and he was holding Bull's hand. Their knees still pressed against each other under the table, and Dorian didn't want to let go. Iron Bull's thumb rubbed along his knuckles.

A peculiar sort of guilt rose sharply in Dorian's gut, mingling with the panic. He was trying to offer Iron Bull some relief from whatever he'd seen at Adamant, and all he could think about was his own problems. Scowling at himself, Dorian wrenched his hands free and picked up their empty tankards.

"Good night," said Dorian, perhaps a little too loudly, and headed for the stairs.

He brought the tankards to Cabot—who told him that if he wanted to play barmaid, he could put on an apron and serve those soldiers on the first floor—and left a sizable tip with Tess. Harding was too far away to speak to, so Dorian waved his goodbye and left, pausing to hold the door open for a group of soldiers.

"Early night, Pavus?" one asked. Dorian couldn't remember his name. They all looked the same with the helmets on.

"Drink one for me," Dorian said, which made the soldier laugh as he followed his friends inside.

It was bitterly cold outside. Wind tore into Dorian's exposed skin, but he needed to take the long route around to the battlements. That lead to the top floor of the tavern, to a door, and through the long hallway and finally, _finally_ to Iron Bull's quarters.

He knocked and waited. Anticipation had been prickling across Dorian's skin since the dust settled at Adamant. He could wait another minute.

The door opened. Inside, Iron Bull was unfastening the strap across his chest, shrugging the leather off his shoulder. The marks on his belly were still vivid against his skin.

Dorian elbowed the door shut and threw an arm around Iron Bull's neck, tugging him down for a kiss. He fumbled blindly behind himself to lock the door and stretched onto his toes, digging his fingers into Bull's shoulder for balance. Bull's chest piece hit the floor, and his hands settled on Dorian's hips. One slid back to palm his arse.

"Aren't you eager," Iron Bull murmured. He lifted Dorian easily, propping him against the door with tight fingers under Dorian's thighs. Dorian tried to angle his leg away from the bruises on Bull's left side, but Bull hummed and told him it was okay.

They kissed, lazy and slow. Iron Bull liked kissing, far more than Dorian assumed. He was just as happy to kiss Dorian as he was to fuck him until he nearly lost the capacity for speech.

Dorian drew back and asked, "Bed?"

Iron Bull grinned and nodded, taking a step away from the door. He waited until Dorian regained his balance before he took another step back.

Dorian held Iron Bull's face, letting the stubble rub against his palms before he kissed him again. Bull's fingers tightened and he stopped moving, making a pleased sound when their tongues touched. He pulled away, chuckling. His mouth was red and shiny; Dorian had to look the same.

"Eager," Iron Bull said again, still grinning.

Dorian fumbled for an excuse as his hands slipped over Bull's shoulders, fingers dancing along the thick muscle. All he could come up with was a trite one. "It's been a long time."

"Since when?"

That was a simple question, and Iron Bull would know the answer no matter what Dorian said. He wasn't a great liar, and he knew from experience that Bull could read him like a damn book. Still, Dorian hesitated, because there hadn't been anyone else. That wasn't unusual for him. In previous arrangements, he had been satisfied by a single person. If they found their pleasures elsewhere, that wasn't for him to decide.

_(They spoke about this, after Dorian went for rum instead of whisky and found his way into Iron Bull's bed for the second time. When the sweat on Dorian's skin was beginning to dry, Iron Bull said, "I don't expect anything from you."_

_Those were old words, ones that still made Dorian's heart twist horribly in his chest, but Bull went on, "If this was the last time, that's okay. If it wasn't, that's okay, too. We can stop whenever you want to."_

_"That works for me," Dorian said. It was a familiar arrangement; he'd had many similar ones over the years._

_"All right." Iron Bull swung his legs over the side of the bed and searched for his trousers. "And if you don't want me to fuck other people, just say so."_

_Dorian didn't know how to respond to that. The longer he waited, the more the silence throbbed in his ears, so he said, "I could never deprive the kitchen girls of such an experience," and that made Iron Bull laugh.)_

"Before Adamant," Dorian answered, leaving the _with you_ unsaid. He remembered sitting in this room with Iron Bull's chest at his back, a heavy hand covering his eyes and another stroking him so slowly that he wanted to weep. He had dug his fingers into the bed while Bull whispered horribly sweet things every time he moaned, and it hadn't taken very long for him to come.

"Oh," said Iron Bull. He sat on the edge of the bed, letting Dorian settle comfortably in his lap before he tugged him into a tight embrace. The grip loosened when Dorian made a surprised sound. "Sorry."

"You don't know your own strength," Dorian told him, his voice muffled in Bull's neck.

"No, I meant—" Iron Bull stopped. His hands were warm and heavy on Dorian's back. "For ignoring you."

Dorian never thought Iron Bull was ignoring him specifically—Bull had avoided nearly everyone after the battle—but the quiet regret in his voice was making Dorian paranoid, so he leaned back to get a decent look at Bull's face. There was nothing but a blank expression. "What?"

"I'm usually not that rude." Iron Bull stroked Dorian's back idly. His gaze drifted around Dorian's face, settling on his mouth. "Definitely not to such a pretty face."

It took a great deal of effort to ignore the flattery, but Dorian managed it. Carefully, he said, "I didn't think you were." He wasn't sure that was quite the right thing to say; Bull sounded so solemn. "Should I be upset? Perhaps throw a fit because you neglected my cock for a few weeks?"

Iron Bull snorted and pulled him closer, nosing at his cheek and kissing him again. It was oddly chaste, considering how they were positioned. "This is what I get for fucking prissy nobles."

"We prefer prim and proper."

"Prim," Iron Bull said, chuckling. He pushed Dorian off his lap and swiftly dropped to his knees. His hands slid up Dorian's thighs. "Yeah, sure."

*

After, Dorian slumped against Iron Bull's chest, his arms dead tired at his sides. His thighs ached, but it was the good kind—anything he associated with fantastic sex was welcome. Iron Bull hadn't moved except to ease his cock free, and his chin rested on top of Dorian's head. Dorian would tip his head back and kiss him if he wasn't so drained.

They fucked like this: Iron Bull sitting against the headboard and Dorian in his lap, hands held behind his back. It might be Bull's favorite position, which was why Dorian suggested it. Bull could hold his wrists in one hand, and he liked seeing Dorian's face when they fucked.

"Worth the wait?" Iron Bull asked. He stretched one arm along the headboard, rolling his shoulder back, and planted his other hand in the small of Dorian's back.

"Ask me in a minute," Dorian mumbled. His eyelids were already heavy. He would have to get up soon, but he really didn't want to.

Iron Bull chuckled and kissed Dorian's temple. Nails dragged lightly over his skin.

Dorian blinked, watching the scarred skin come into focus. He was sweaty and sticky, but he was a mage, and he could fix that. He flexed his fingers before flattening his palm against the bed, concentrating. It took half a minute before he was somewhat clean. The bed was another matter. Bull had already wiped the come off his belly with the sheet, and it lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. Dorian was too weary to deal with it.

"I'm gonna move you," Iron Bull murmured.

Dorian protested without speaking, the guttural noise slipping from deep in his throat. He had never been so comfortable.

"Let me—" Iron Bull's voice dropped off as he shifted, probably looking over Dorian's shoulder. "What the—?"

"Relax. That was me." Dorian lifted his hand, wiggling his fingers. "Ta-da."

Iron Bull settled back against the headboard. "Oh. I didn't know you could do that."

"I try not to cast spells when I'm drunk."

It wasn't until Dorian had spoken that he realized Iron Bull might take offense to that. He winced, thankful his face was hidden in Bull's chest.

Iron Bull just chuckled. "So you've made that mistake before?"

"Once or twice."

Another chuckle. The sound rumbled against Dorian's skin. Iron Bull kissed Dorian's temple again.

The hand on Dorian's back was warm, stroking steadily.

Dorian needed to close his eyes.

Just for a moment.

*

Someone said his name.

Dorian couldn't see. Something spiked in his veins, traveling up his throat and ringing in his ears. He groped blindly, finding—skin. Familiar skin. Iron Bull. He was still sitting in Bull's lap, his knees bumping against the headboard. One of his arms was stiff, the skin tingling and aching, and his fingers felt too large. There was a big hand on his back and another on his face, and someone was saying his name again.

"You fell asleep," said Iron Bull softly. He stroked Dorian's cheek and let his hand fall away, landing on the bed with a quiet _thump_.

"So I did." Dorian's voice was raw, scraping against his throat. He licked his lips, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste. "My apologies. I didn't mean to."

"It's okay." Big fingers rubbed along Dorian's back. "You drooled on me. It was adorable."

"I did no such thing," said Dorian, wiping the spittle from his mouth and Bull's collarbone. He blinked, trying to peer through the dark. "What happened to the torches?"

"You said they were too bright. I told you I'd take care of it, but then you pointed at them, and they went out."

Dorian couldn't remember any of that. Was he really that tired? Apparently. A boring day followed by hearty ale and great sex was a dangerous combination.

"It was very impressive," Iron Bull added.

Snorting, Dorian pushed his thumb into his shoulder and flexed his fingers until the pins and needles faded. His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness; he could see the shape of Iron Bull's face now.

Like he always did, Iron Bull asked, "You staying?"

Dorian hesitated. He had never stayed for long. Iron Bull teased him sometimes, for leaving as soon as they were finished.

_("I prefer to be seen leaving my own quarters in the morning," said Dorian, as he tugged a boot on._

_The bed shook with Iron Bull's laughter. "Look in the mirror."_

_There was a small mirror resting on top of a chest, so Dorian peered at it. He saw a sweaty, disheveled man, with a red mouth and unkempt hair. There was an obvious love mark on his throat, dark against the faint sheen of sweat. He looked well-fucked and clearly happy about it._

_"It's dark," Dorian tried. It was a weak excuse and both of them knew it, but Iron Bull just nodded and watched him look for the other boot._

_When he was dressed, Iron Bull said, "You smell like me, too," almost absent-mindedly, and Dorian thought about that when he woke up the next morning, alone and already hard and aching.)_

Dorian didn't stay for one-night trysts, but he had with men he'd fucked more than once. Not often. It had never ended well, in his experience.

There were things that Dorian might want. Had wanted. Still wanted, if he permitted himself to. The thought of wanting those things with Iron Bull was—unnerving. Panic churned in his throat when he imagined it, so he shoved those thoughts into a dark corner of his mind and ignored them as best he could.

But it was only one night. Surely, Dorian could manage that. He knew Iron Bull would appreciate it.

"Yes," said Dorian. He thought Bull might be beaming. "If that's all right with you. I didn't think I—"

A yawn slipped out of his mouth before Dorian could stop it. He was tired enough to be dizzy, the world shifting behind his eyes when he blinked. Exhaustion hung heavily over his skull.

"Would make it down the stairs?" Iron Bull suggested. Dorian just nodded. "Yeah, of course." He shifted, touching Dorian's side gently. "I need to move, though."

"If you must," said Dorian, sighing, and slipped off Iron Bull's lap.

Both knees cracked, the sound hissing through the air like a whip. Groaning, Dorian rolled onto his back. He had to bend his left knee again to get rid of the lingering stiffness, and another tremendous _crack_ rang out. Iron Bull sprawled out beside him, one arm stretching above Dorian's head, and called him an old man. Dorian pretended not to hear and kicked the blanket up, offering half to Bull.

"No pillows," said Iron Bull, tugging the blanket up to his waist. The bed dipped when he moved, and Dorian heard the horns scrape against the headboard.

Dorian tipped his head to the side and considered using Iron Bull's chest. The bed was big, and there was more than enough space, but Dorian was certain he would get a crick in his neck if he did. "That's all right."

Bull didn't say anything, so Dorian folded his hands together on his belly and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable. Usually, he slept on his stomach or his side, sprawled out over the bed with his head resting against his forearms. If he wasn't so tired already, he would have a hard time falling asleep. The air was pleasantly cool against his exposed skin, and he was grateful for a thick blanket and another body nearby.

"Fuck, you're warm," Iron Bull murmured. He shifted his weight again, bumping Dorian's arm. "Is that a magic thing?"

"No. I'm always warm."

"You are pretty hot."

"How kind of you to notice," Dorian said. Iron Bull snorted. "I can give you more heat, if you like."

After a few seconds, Iron Bull said, "Sure."

Dorian rolled onto his side, tucking his left arm against his chest. He flattened his palm over Iron Bull's belly, careful to avoid the bruises, and let heat flare around his fingers. The skin flexed under Dorian's hand.

"How's that?" Dorian asked. He pressed his fingertips down, allowing heat to trickle over Iron Bull's sides.

"Good. It's like that lightning thing you do, but—softer?"

The arm above his head shifted. Soon, a hand was light against Dorian's back. Dorian allowed it without comment. He should have known Iron Bull liked to cuddle.

Downstairs, someone shouted, and Dorian flinched at the sudden noise. He couldn't make out the words, but he could tell the person was drunk and ready to let the world know about it. It was the first sound he had heard from the tavern since he woke up, which was odd. Usually, there was still drinking and singing going on when Dorian came here.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Dunno. Long time, though."

"Sorry."

"Nah, it's okay."

"I wanted," said Dorian, his voice drifting off as guilt rose like sharp bile in his throat.

He knew how much Iron Bull took care of him, even when he wasn't being overt about it. At Inquisition camps, there was always honeyed bread in the mornings when Iron Bull was there. He knew where to find the good wine in Skyhold, and he was happy to act as a buffer between Dorian and Orlesian nobles who declared them both heretics. In bed, Bull asked with words more often than his hands, and he never mocked Dorian for saying no.

Iron Bull genuinely enjoyed helping people; he didn't think of it as a chore. And Dorian had tried to do the same, to give Bull what he did for Dorian, and he didn't think it had worked very well. They had fucked and Dorian immediately fell asleep, like an old man after mounting his wife and failing to please her.

Dorian shook his head, embarrassed with himself, but Iron Bull said, "It's okay."

Gentle and kind, like always. It would be annoying if it wasn't so sincere.

"I wanted to help," said Dorian, fighting the urge to squirm. This felt like a confession. His tongue was too thick. "I've never seen you so quiet. After Adamant, I mean."

"You did."

It sounded like he was smiling. Something in Dorian's chest swelled. Bull's hand drifted up his back to his hair, fingers pushing across his scalp. Tingles spread along Dorian's neck, darting down his spine.

"Don't worry about me."

 _Someone ought to_ , Dorian thought, but he couldn't say it. He slid his palm over Iron Bull's belly, letting the heat travel deep into the bruises. The flesh under his hand tensed, then relaxed.

"There's been a few bad nights," said Iron Bull quietly. He continued to stroke Dorian's head. "I didn't want to scare you. Or hurt you."

"Nightmares?" Dorian guessed. Horns knocked into the headboard when Bull nodded. "Ah."

"Usually, I don't dream."

Dorian didn't know how to respond. How to help. If whatever Iron Bull had seen in the Fade was enough to give him nightmares, Dorian had nothing to compare it to. He floundered internally for a few seconds before blurting out, "Me, neither. Just the usual ones about showing up for important meetings in my underclothes."

"Shit, I'd never get anything done."

"That's why Josephine is in charge of meetings."

Iron Bull chuckled. He covered Dorian's hand with his, tugging it up to the center of his chest, and held it there. Dorian linked their fingers together, because he knew Bull would like it, and dispersed the trapped heat between their hands. He was too weary to continue casting without his staff or robes.

"I can do more of that tomorrow," Dorian offered. He extended his smallest finger, indicating the bruises. "If you need it."

"I might."

"Anything to get my hands on you?"

"Oof," said Iron Bull, mocking a gut punch. "You got me."

Dorian wriggled closer and shut his eyes. "Your debauchery knows no bounds."

"Go to sleep, sweetheart," Iron Bull murmured. Dorian couldn't help but groan. "Oh, I thought you liked that one. How about darling?"

"No, that's worse."

"Baby?"

He said that, sometimes. _Come for me, baby, c'mon, let me see._ The memory made Dorian flush, even as he shook his head.

"I'll make up a list," Iron Bull told him. His hand slipped from Dorian's head, landing on his back. He held Dorian close without hesitation, like it was something he did every night. "You can critique my handwriting."

"And your spelling, I expect."

Iron Bull snorted. After a few minutes, he squeezed Dorian's hand. "Hey."

"Hm?" Dorian didn't bother to open his eyes. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

"I don't think I did anything," Dorian admitted. He was glad he couldn't see Iron Bull's face.

"Sure you did."

Iron Bull shifted, ducking down to kiss the top of Dorian's head.

Someone was singing downstairs, loudly and off-key.

Dorian slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I don't have a beta, so if you spot any errors, please let me know.


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